How to Make a Manhattan

You'll need rye whisky, vermouth, and a couple other ingredients.

Manhattan Ingredients

2 ounces whiskey -- rye whisky

1 ounce vermouth -- Italian vermouth

2 dashes Bitters -- Angostura bitters

Cocktail glass

How To Make the Manhattan:

Stir the rye,* vermouth and bitters well with cracked ice. (Some prefer to shake their Manhattans. There's nothing wrong with that, really, at least no more than putting ketchup on a hot-dog is wrong or mayonnaise on a corned beef sandwich. If you like your Manhattan cloudy and topped with an algae-like foam, shake away. It won't taste any worse, anyway, although it'll feel thinner on the tongue.) Strain into in a chilled cocktail glass and garnish with twist or, of course, maraschino cherry (which is subject to the same challenge re: purity as adding an olive to a martini).

Of course, human beings, being human beings, can never leave well enough alone. Here, then, are the obligatory variants.

First, a few you can make by monkeying around with the bitters: Lose the Angostura and pitch in a splash of Amer Picon and it's a Monahan; a splash of anisette and it's a Narragansett; 2 dashes of cherry brandy and a dash of absinthe and you've got a McKinley's Delight. Leave a dash of the Angostura in, add a dash of orange bitters and 3 dashes of absinthe: a Sherman.

Or you can tinker with the vermouth. Replace half the Italian vermouth with French for a so-called Perfect Manhattan. Equal parts of rye, French vermouth, and Italian vermouth: a Jumbo. Make that with bourbon: a Honolulu (no bitters at all in those last two). Cut the Italian vermouth entirely and make it half bourbon and half French vermouth: a Rosemary. To turn that into a Brown University, just add a couple dashes of orange bitters. Coming almost full circle, if you make your classic 2-to-1 Manhattan with French vermouth instead of Italian and a dash of Amer Picon and one of Maraschino, you're in Brooklyn. And there are more -- the Rob Roy, for one, but we gotta stop somewhere.

* In case of emergency -- you need a Manhattan and you're passing a bar of the "Rye? Nah." variety -- Canadian Club will do; it's got lots of rye in it.

The Wondrich Take:

When properly built, the Manhattan is the only cocktail that can slug it out toe-to-toe with the martini. It's bold and fortifying, yet as relaxing as a deep massage. J.P. Morgan used to have one at the close of each trading day. It's that kind of drink.

"When properly built" -- there's the problem. For a real Manhattan, you need rye whiskey. No amount of fiddling with the vermouth and bitters can save this drink if you've got bourbon in the foundations; it's just too sticky-sweet. But with rye, this venerable creation -- its roots stretch back to the old Manhattan Club, in 1874 -- is as close to divine perfection as a cocktail can be. The harmony between the bitters, the sweet vermouth, and the sharp, musky whiskey rivals even that existing between gin and tonic water.

All things change, and immortality is not in the grasp of man or his creations. For many a year, it seemed that the virtual disappearance of rye meant that the real Manhattan had gone the way of the Aztecs. Luckily, that's not the end of the story. The wave of high living that washed us out of the last century has brought with it a renewed interest in fine, funky old things like cigars, big-band jazz, and rye whiskey. Sure, sometimes this gets carried to extremes, but if that means that nobody will ever again pour a bourbon Manhattan, we'll gladly put up with all the dipshits in "Make Mine with Rye" T-shirts.